mmmxcvi

February June

perfect personality.
deep love.
thinks to oneself.
not always able.
wants sensitive secrets.
easily good.
supreme special.
loves to dress up.
able to recover.
difficult.
soft.
funny fussy.
hyper fuckin’.
golden unpredictable.
polite nevermind.
emotions.
hardly provoked.
there is a way.
shows emotions.
executive daydreamer.
has a lot.
brilliant.
ordinary.
brave.
choosy.
terrific.
romantic.
high.
unique.
always.

mmmxcv

interstate travels

in an immaculate arizona lavatory

we found a turquoise feather of

copper heritage.  then we burst forth

like a volcano from the earring section.

within the closed triangle of cash registers

the language is silence.  someone, the template

of gorgeous, nearly runs us over with a mop.

we’ve been caught.  necking in the bobble-heads

aisle.  gorgeous has destroyed each compound

of heretofore perfection, made a jagged body

out of every impossible slat or chunk and, util

izing what now unmistakably means eyes, leads

us to the lavatory that had served up that beautiful

odd piece of what we’d always called the knickknacks

of the great southwest.  which have always been so easy

to find.  once inside the squeaky clean bathroom, we

both give each other a silent look that says what the...

how did we miss the portal on the wall?  as mind-

boggling as that was, we’d need never put words to

it or anything else ever again.  we would never need to

scrunch up our faces and try to come up with the right

noises - in reasonable order - with which to ponder the

relationship between the two of us, or those between us,

singly and individually, and anything else we’d have said

exists.  because we already knew where we were going.

the last few details were not really considered, but were

nonetheless experienced.  the deity fills the urinal with

some – overflowing – lava.  i can remember clutching my

phone in my hand, but each hand was deep within its pocket.

and then there was an explosion.  we were desert-side

long enough to make out that it was happening some

where near the silver dollar belt buckles.  clean

restrooms are a way of life.  where once we

proffered our bucks and displayed our ex

pended garbage.  i leaned down to snag a

striking anklet, a splendid find, from

the clean floor.  our god’s mouth opens

huge and out comes an epiphany of

wildly searing pitch.  all pitches.  it

is a way of saying step through this

hole in the restroom wall as it swirls in 

all colors and leads toward a soupy dark

ness, like a saturday morning cartoon,

just on the other side of a

mop bucket.  the water in the

bucket is clear.  we step

into the dust, which

we can quickly

determine is

made of tiny

intricately woven

reticules.  there’s

a lake the color

of a long-discon-

tinued crayon.

mmmxciv

WHIPLASH, or

don’t drive the rental all the way
to arkansas if you have yet to
read the fine print

morning and the friggin’ hybrid’s
busted.  i left the blesséd head for some
hummingbird.  the sugared feeders
less reddish in the morningness.
i swings next to them.  nobody flies away.
sweltered porch with a little fruit
in the distance.  a little peaches tree
and the birds loves it.  this lesson’s
almost over.  driving over the river
and into the state.  how to know
if yours is the first prius ever to
arrive in fort smith.  the tiny blooms
or the big red feeders.  the bloomer’s
busted.  the bloomin’ bloomers.
busted.

mmmxciii

a wild red hair

we’ve an heirloom to sleep on. it wobbles
whether we sleep or not. unable to breathe,
i left my lover for a sudafed in the wal-mart
super-center. once inside, i was swingin’
near the big red bird-feeders with a
little red sudafed, dry as an
oklahoma interstate.

i have to show my license to the
pharmacist ’cuz people sometimes make
drugs with it. blesséd druggist. back in
the bedroom: an impressive old woven rug
with a burnished headboard. out the
bedroom window: a blesséd warbler.
she bleeped herself and wobbled like a
robin.

big red sudafed of the warbling
druggist. now we’ve got a bloomin’
air. an air for sneezin’. an air
for lovin’. a hard red air.
a wild red hair.

mmmxcii

the california of the clear candy future

the farmer was a soothsayer. all night,
some days, she’d tell me my future. as
much as she could tell me until i’d blink
no more. until she’d tuck me into the
extra-tall, extra-perfect bed. the farmer’s
kitchen sink was running next to the farmer’s
crockpot. she’s never one to run out of
macaroni, the farmer. in my dreams, late
those very same nights, i’d tell her future.
and it was not marooned like mine.

love is not moored. so whose soul lies
in ruins, dives several layers through texas?
not the farmer’s. the soul of the graying
(which is the color of the filtered sky). which
is not the color of the farmer’s future. which
is the future of hams and of (generally) pig
futures. which is very bright, is always up up

up and up and up. i told my love, the farmer’s
fink, that he was fanning souls from layers deep.
from beneath the desert saguaro. because he was
always employed by the power of the great
escape. the fantasy (imagine that, a fantasy!)
of the great escape was his muse. he was a
believer in the prophesies of the farmer,
of marooned and of morose. it’s not so simple,
i said. do i look marooned? i asked, teasing.
the tease is the joker’s steppingstone.

and when i go? every mile another blowout.
futures glimmer next to the macaroni. my
soul drives ice through an entirety of texas.
and was this skeptic my future love, my plate
of bacon on the mesa? i told the farmer of a
future that was alabama. she said wrong dir-
ection. pork harbors several layers of soul. and
kisses over the crockpot from our farmer. the
graying temples where we worship our driving
loveaches, whittling them into loves or erasures.
it rains macaroni, a spectacle, which, like any
pestilence, ruins the macaroni.

once on the open road, i remember so much
luck. i keep count as i pass each patrol car
in texas. in new mexico. in arizona. in cali-
fornia. even in california, where i am coasting
past truck drivers and their service stations.
i relax as i coast all the way to ocean beach.

mmmxci

mother was a flyswatter

i love to go where the
washes last only 25
scents and the various
bugs in the air go on
holiday thrice a year.

there are so many of
them.

         in my dream[s]
i ready my aim (there
are so many of them).
i need to be an eager
swatter like my mother.

mmmxc

we try to say everything twice

we pass a bumper sticker for
a third time.  no jesus.  no peace.
more blue clouds from over the
grand canyon.  they float onto the
heads behind our ears.  i am staying
awake and i loves it (e.g., it’s hot!).  a
big cop pulls us over and stuff comes
out of his mouth but we don’t.  we
don’t understand a word.  a word

like reciprocity.  and duplicity.
and pulls.  and us. (reciprocity
duplicity pulls us over) and

when we get to california (california).
when we get to california all of the
eucalyptus trees are bent as if in
[worship].  we develop like film
and fly through the baptist billboard
in the castro that reads our actions
are the interpretes of our thoughts.

mmmlxxxix

red skies at night

my father floats gently
over the city. flames engulf
a eucalyptus. after we saw the
flag braving the foggy sun
we took two happy pills.
flutters throughout the night
of awkwardness. of clouds
hovering above the city
flying with my father

over the flames.

mmmlxxxviii

the simple life

we pull over for a cameo.  only
twenty dollars a canyon.  a red
rockslip.  pre-storm and innumerable
languages.  twenty red lovebirds in the
thunderstorm grab for a camera.
couple of snapshots one in a million.
shirtless europeans in america pull over.
forty winks or forty wonders.  wet
wonders.  twenty gazillion rocks
scarred by all the snaps.  each blushes
at all the languishes.  only a dollar a
minute.  rocks got your tongue.  roadies
rocks.  chasing thunder through the
desert.  we pull over.  rocks got what.
rocks got your tongues and rocks got
your dollars.  tongues and dollars.  hard
ache that red rock.  forty wet blowouts
chasing sagebrush.

mmmlxxxvii

circuit breaking snuff bowl

it’s a lovely drive over texas with 2 hearts. which
could be fantasy but isn’t? all the derricks are
doing well. that said, the texas cop that electrocutes
our hearts knows nothing about our fog. it’s
human nature. we are as alive as the downpour
the rainfall in dallas after all of the oklahoma cops.
this could be a fantasy but i remember my refrigerator
has a pint of spoiling milk and a nib of the fire that 

ate some of our floor. there is no way to see the future. 

but i accept this current of tenderness that we make public.
is it meant for me? at home we live differently with
another heart and a piece of red glass that didn’t get
broken in the move. you rejoice: we’ve returned to spend
some of our time inside the blue flowers. i remember
also how giddy we were when we caught up with our own
individual hearts again someplace north of los angeles.

mmmlxxxvi

from Dream Diary

March 6

2 dreams:
   1. I was a truck driver, driving the truck through tons of hills.
   2. I had an awkward date with someone I went to elementary school with.

mmmlxxxv

from Dream Diary

March 21

The setting is the house where I grew up and the small pasture behind it. In this dream I am an “adult.”

Two big blond guys were in our pasture and “we” (I don’t know who else was with me, perhaps my brothers) were tasked with keeping them in the pasture, and not letting them escape.  Sometimes this involved beating the men back from the fence with a long metallic pole (they were constantly trying to get thru the gate). Time passes, “we” are back in the house, and the blonds have managed to escape and have gotten into our house where they are trying to kill us.  One of the guys slaps a videotape onto my back, which does nearly kill me.  I stumble onto the front porch and notice Woody Allen, who has just departed the Dairy Diner (across the street) and is on his way to get into his car, which is parked on the street close to our driveway.  So I stumble further out, onto the street, and desperately explain to Mr. Allen that someone is trying to kill me and my family.  He laughs, apparently thinking I am telling a joke, and gets into his car and drives away.

mmmlxxxiv

from Dream Diary

March 20

on the beach: everyone was either wearing a blue bathing suit 

or a green bathing suit (I was wearing blue, I think).

mmmlxxxiii

from Dream Diary


March 23

Was with my family who was not my family and we were planning a vacation to some metropolitan area but instead the father decided that we should go to a park instead, where we floated around on some tires until we all decided it was not fun.  So then we decided to go ahead to the metropolitan place, which was not Chicago, but that’s where we wound up, eventually talking to a group of folks who all seemed familiar (it turns out that there were only two people I actually knew: a friend from elementary school and my dorm-mate from my freshman year in undergrad). Wherever we were in Chicago, we could see the lake, and we each kept trying to remember the name of it. There were all sorts of amphibious vehicles being driven around. Then I was in a grocery store where some guy was leaning on me, then he tried to explain why he was leaning on me, but I wasn’t interested. He had 5 o’clock shadow and a green sweater.

mmmlxxxii

from that
day for
word,

harpo

the jelly

man would

scream

bloody

murder

whenever

anyone

would o

pen up

a jar

of

creamy

peanut

butter

mmmlxxxi

brief, comp
licated and
tons of fun.

that’s me.
remember?
tonight, we’ll

concentrate
mostly on the
fun. kosh? i

finally
gave my
brother

the advice
he always
wanted

to hear: it’s
just plain
hot to make

nonsense
out of
sense.

in fact, it’s
the only
right thing

to do. to
desecrate
the sensible,

to wreak
havoc on
the calm.

there’s
entirely
too much

complac
ency out
there. we

can surely
agree on
that. am

i right? to
cast doubt
wherever

there’s cer
titude. to
make non

sense out
of sense,
if you will.

i know
the de
tails look

a bit sus
picious
on the

surface,
your
honor.

but
i ass
ure you

that once
you allow
me to

explain
the logic
behind

the move
ment from
each seem

ingly jaw
dropping
accusa

tion to
the next,
i swear you

will thence
forth deny
that you

were ever
even skept
ical. i am

the good
guy. i al
ways have

been. it’s
just in my
nature to

seek out
order in
order to

rustle up
a dust-storm.
but officer,

you are
a man of
the law,

are you not?
so i assume
you know

the basic
laws of
science.

let me
offer as an
example

the law of
entropy.
physics

class,
day
one:

every
thing’s
going

in the
general
direction of

chaos. of
deterioration.
structure in

evitably be
comes de
struction.

there’s
just no
denying it.

so. might i
please just
know what

i could
have poss
ibly done

wrong here?
this is what i
do: i help

nature
take its
course.

it’s in my
nature to
help nature

take its
course.
naturally.

and just
between
you and me,

how could i
not? i mean,
who doesn’t

like nature?
am i right?
i mean, we

all know i
am. how
could i not be?

now. it’s
been a pleas
ure. and i trust

i didn’t muss
such a gorgeous
sunday. i mean,

just look at it.
how could i
possibly...?

mmmlxxx

getting into character

i used to watch

mission impossible

when it was on

television, still

running new

episodes.  i 

watched it

mostly for

mister spock.

at six or seven,

i was already a

trekkie.  and it

was a very odd

sort of thrill to

watch him play

a human.  as

for the show

itself, i don't

remember 

much of any-

thing else

about it.  i

could never

muster what-

ever it took to

understand the

plot-line of any 

episode.  it

was too con-

voluted for me

at the time.  it

was always so

quiet.  as if 

nothing ever 

happened.

and as if to

make it even

more sleepy,

there was 

the awesome

opening sequence,

filled with the 

adrenaline-

inducing 

theme song, 

which, com-

bined with the 

long, lit hissing 

fuse that was

on-screen, 

made me giddy

with urgency

and suspense.

i would be

on my feet, 

right in front

of the tv set,

dancing in

five/four

time until

the song

was over.

and then,

after the 

first set 

of com-

mercials,

that sizzle

fizzled, and

i could never

catch hold of

anything that 

was happening,

thanks to a plot

that would seem

to crawl at a 

snail's pace

and which

would be

filled with

numerous

long periods

of just plain

silence.  and so

it then became,

for me, a

show about

trying to watch

it long enough

to catch leonard

nimoy’s round-

eared human

character.

and when

i did last that 

long, i would 

always find

myself a bit

let down.  on

this totally

different show

(which was de-

cidedly not a star

trek alternate

universe), this

character made

me skeptical

toward spock.

it defied my 

tiny-headed

logic.  how 

could he, 

after all,

betray

the crew

of the ent-

erprise by

being on

this sum-

marily mun- 

dane show?

how could

he betray

vulcan by

totally de-

nouncing

that half

of his heri-

tage?  for

a human 

that was

so cruelly 

boring? 

except for

his laugh,

which would 

erupt suddenly, 

with some reg-

ularity, and which

would give me

such a case of

the heebiejeebies.

it was so freaky

that it was difficult

for me to watch,

and yet, from

which it was

even more 

impossible

to look away. 

but,

to this

day, when-

ever i hear 

the theme 

song?

it gets 

me there,

fast and 

focused.

mmmlxxix

pretend it’s a
monocle, he
says. a kal-
eidoscope.
the hubble!

it’s a something
you’ve always
wanted to
learn but
have been

too afraid
to try night—
something
we do once
in a blue

moon. so i
am not keen
to burst his
bubble.
however,

i do quite
know what
i am doing.
in fact, it’s
all i have

done for
my entire
life. or as
far back as i
can remember.

i have just
never done
it quite so
officially,
and i am

a bit dizzy
with ad-
renaline.
i’ve cert-
ainly never

held one so
big before,
and have
never been
quite so del-

iberate about
the business
of it. he
thought it
would be

fun, and i
concur.
as for which
position i
prefer?

i am equally
as fine with
being in front
of the lens
as i am with

being behind
it. if i have
any rule,
then i
suppose

it would be
whichever is
the quickest
in a pinch.
one way

or another
i am always
on. unless,
of course,
i am liter-

ally at the
cinema. or
in front of
the box at
home (or

there-
abouts).
when so
situated,
i’m neither

focus nor gaze.
instead, i calmly
and reverently
allow my-
self to be

transported.
he doesn’t
know this yet,
but it is in
one of these

three realms
that he can
always find
me. which,
poor dear,

makes me
very much
unavailable.
but tonight
he’ll take one

end and i’ll
take the other.
and then, for
at least a
couple of

hours or so,
he’ll see,
as i do,
what it is
to be rid

of this
unwieldy
world a-
round us.
we may,

in fact, run
into each
other, swept
away, as it
were, within

the folds of
some chorus
of human
collaboration.
or whatever.

would that
i were al-
ways so
ostenta-
tious. but,

to imagine
oneself
such a
fancy
god....

it may not
be an
eternal
escape—
just yet,

anyway—
but to-
night
it is—
at

least—
a small,
but ne-
cessary
diversion.

mmmlxxviii

Space Bat

Holy Batwings, Murder Girl, have I got a story for you!
It’s twelve twelve and there goes a shooting star over
Mount Dragonsnort. The summer milk in each dim bulb
navies an otherwise sinister river, our iconic Creek Full of
Broken Numbers. Odd men are out; they smatter the
shore with balding languor. Suddenly, up in the sky,
it’s Kaiju. He’s breathing a word-message: “Death not
to the language making dizzy the angst-ridden mudders!”
What it means to the clock on the landscape doesn’t stop
the story from dancing. Zero grows feral, fills himself up
on red pills and [daisies]. No matter the prattle, this dance
allies with a gangly plot, pilfers all the loopy newsreels,
parades through the city like a snake-plant atop a garbage-
heap of iPods and cellphones. Nobody knows how to open.

mmmlxxvii

Space Bat Tree

Pain stops neither at the noon shine nor at the disparate
Italian breakdowns. Graffiti pocks the nether-reaches
of Ninja Kitty City; nightgowns on putative dog-lovers
skirl around dear Martini-Man. He was only here to snap
at Zero, so why the long face of a red bat draped over
Owl Bird’s lone ornament? The true story plummets like a
Valentine over your sour face (erstwhile lying in the gutter
like freewheeling fiction). Evidence of each broken pigeon
mounts like hail-dents on taxibots. Is it a forced evasion?
This, only a mere flicker of the plot, and still no leads on
Murder Girl. Falling into yet another true story I am only
[jerking]. Our express bus has yet to arrive and these words
collapse yet atop the garish clouds onto the sullen harpies
because they are not super-intellectual. Ninja! Kitty! City!